Cookies in the Snow
by flYegurl
Summary: Kenny's got it rough. With an abusive dad and little food, sometimes it's hard to find a reason to keep going. If he dies, at least he can have a peaceful rest before waking up the next morning. But Kyle can make living, at least for a while, worth it.
1. Chapter 1

Kyle Broflovski was walking home late one night from an epic PS3 tournament with his friend Stan. He carried a paper bag filled with leftover cookies that Mrs. Marsh had given him – "Take them, Kyle," she had said, "my son just won't let himself lose that weight he gained over Thanksgiving…" – as he walked steadily along the sidewalk, hesitantly placing his feet, trying to avoid the icy patches hidden under inches of snow. His feet weren't cold because he was wearing new winter boots, but his long fingers and rather large ears were growing chilly, even under his protective gloves and green ushanka.

The red-haired boy reached up to blow on his fingers, although it barely helped, and besides, he wasn't that cold anyway. Bitingly chilly, but not cold. Giving up, Kyle stuffed one of his hands into his pockets, the other hanging out, holding onto the paper cookie bag. Every so often, once the cold grew too unbearable for that hand, he would switch, exchanging the bag to the other hand and stuffing the cold one into its pocket. It worked well enough, except for the chill that was constantly biting at his ears, and now the tip of his long nose.

Kyle exhaled and watched the steam that emanated from his mouth dissipate into the cool night air. Startled by a flash of white that drifted past his face, he realized that it had begun to snow. Great, fat white flakes floated on the breeze, landing on the layer that was already stuck to the frozen ground. South Park rarely ever saw a day without snow layering the ground, especially in winter, and it was deep into December. Almost Chanukah. And almost Christmas, Kyle mused. He would have to start thinking of presents for his friends soon.

As Kyle walked past his old elementary school, he glanced casually towards the playground, shrouded in darkness. Recalling childhood memories, he smiled slightly. When he was just a kid, he would play all over those plastic slides and monkey-bars with his friends.

Kyle shook his head, containing his reminiscent grin, and continued to walk. He wouldn't have noticed the boy on the swing if not for the noise of the chains from the rust that had formed over years of exposure to the harsh mountainous climate. As it was, the swing had barely moved at all, and only the slightest creak could be heard in the heavy silence of the snowy night. Nonetheless, Kyle heard it.

Starting at the slight noise, Kyle turned immediately towards the faint sound back in the playground. The swings were shrouded in shadow near the dark school walls, but peering closely into the dark Kyle could make out the slight silhouette of a boy, sitting on a swing.

"Hello?" Kyle called to the figure, unsure of whether he should have said something or not. It could be a boy who had gotten lost and wandered here, and needed help. But it could just as easily be a kidnapper or rapist, and the anxiety Kyle felt about the unknown person's identity prickled at the back of his neck and almost made him turn back and walk away as fast as he could. But then the figure raised his head, and Kyle sighed in relief at the dim sight of the hood of an orange parka. It was Kenny McCormick.

"Dude," Kyle said, walking out across the old playground to the swing upon which his friend was sitting. "What are you doing?"

Closer up, Kenny was easier to see. In one sweep of his green eyes Kyle observed his friend's threadbare parka, his ungloved hands clutching at the rusty chains of the swing, his damp, filthy sweatpants, and his sorry excuse for winter boots. Kenny peered at his friend through his hood, his impish blue eyes twinkling. He cracked a grin.

"I decided to take a walk," he said casually, digging the heels of his old boots into the snow. Kyle laughed, shaking his head.

"Only you, Kenny, only you," he mused, walking over to the swing next to Kenny's and taking a seat, stretching his legs out – the swing was short, it was meant for elementary-school kids, after all – and placing the bag of cookies in his lap, stuffing both of his hands into his welcomingly warm pockets. He pursed his lips and blew a stream of steam into the darkness. It was visible for a moment as a cloud before vanishing.

Kenny shrugged, and Kyle saw his knuckles under his taught skin as his grip on the chains tightened. He wondered if the boy was cold. "What about you? What are you doing out at this time of night?"

"I was at Stan's house," Kyle said.

"Ah," Kenny replied, turning his gaze to his damp boots. He scraped them against the snow, uncovering the frozen ground beneath. "Bet you had loads of fun."

"Yeah," replied the Jewish boy, gazing piercingly at the blond. Kenny seemed a bit off to him, and he didn't know why, and he couldn't quite put his finger on how. But he did, that was for certain.

Kyle hesitated before asking the question. "Are you okay? You don't seem… like yourself."

Kenny McCormick raised an eyebrow at his friend, then shook his head. "I'm fine."

"You're out in the middle of our elementary school playground at one in the morning. And you're not wearing gloves. You must be freezing, Kenny."

"I never wear gloves," Kenny reasoned. "And I'm always out at one in the morning."

"At the elementary school?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"Memories?"

Kyle looked at Kenny for a long moment before dropping the subject. He gazed out at the playground, at the snow coating the dirt, gleaming off-white even in the darkness. The snow that had started began falling in larger flakes, although not heavily. Kyle smiled.

"There really are a lot of memories here, aren't there?"

"Yeah," Kenny agreed. "Like, over there, by the spinny thing, the one that you run around and then jump on and get dizzy?" Kyle looked over to where he was pointing. "Cartman got sick on that when we were kids. He threw up all over Stan, remember? Said it was Stan's fault for being in the way when he had to puke."

Kyle laughed. "Hey, yeah. Except that he specifically aimed at Stan. What are those things called, anyway?"

The two friends stared for a moment at the item in question. They had spent so many fun days playing on and around it, but they had never thought to learn its name.

"I always thought it was just called 'that spinny thing,'" Kenny replied sheepishly, shrugging.

"Yeah, me too."

There was a silence for a moment, before Kyle brought up another memory.

"There. That's where Tweek and Craig were going to fight for the first time, but then they didn't 'cause they were pussies."

"I think it was more because they were eight and didn't wanna go psycho on each other's asses," Kenny pointed out. "But it's true. Those two are wimps."

"Well, there, that's where you almost got killed by that runaway tractor." Kyle pointed out another area of the playground.

"Yeah," Kenny hesitated. "Almost."

"God, that scared the fucking shit out of us, dude. You have so many near-death experiences."

"Mm-hmm."

Kyle looked sideways at Kenny. The blonde's eyes were glazed, and he was staring straight ahead, as though recalling something that wasn't really all that happy. Kyle sighed, looking down at his boots. He compared them to Kenny's. Kyle's were shiny and new, heavy, sturdy and warm; Kenny's were years old, too small, ratty and did barely any good besides keeping his socks from getting too wet.

"I'm sure glad you're not dead, dude," Kyle said quietly. He heard Kenny chuckle.

"Yeah. Me too, I guess."

Kyle stared at Kenny's face. It was shadowed under the hood of his beat-up orange parka, but he could make out the big, almond-shaped blue eyes; his chapped lips, smirking like he was quietly laughing at some private joke; his slightly crooked nose, broken from a fist fight a few years ago; and the way his cheeks were sunken from lack of food.

Kyle looked down at the paper bag of cookies on his lap.

"You hungry, Kenny?"

Kenny turned his head to look at his friend, looking incredulous.

"Seriously?"

"Sure," Kyle said, holding out the bag. "They aren't Kosher, anyway, my mom would go ballistic. She's gone all hardcore Jewish."

"Weren't you already hardcore Jewish, dude?"

"Yeah, but she didn't used to force me to eat Kosher. She even makes me Kosher lunches now."

"Yeah, but…" Kenny stared hungrily at the bag.

"It doesn't matter, dude, just take it. Mrs. Marsh made them, man. They're your favorite."

After a slight hesitation, Kenny reached out and took the bag. As his fingers brushed against Kyle's gloved hand, Kyle could actually feel how cold they were through the cloth.

Kenny's hands shook as he opened the bag, and he pulled his hood down to his shoulders as he reached in to take out a cookie. His hair was messy and dirty, as always, and was flat against his head from the pressure of the hood. He proceeded to eat the cookies as though they were a gift from God, rather than leftovers from his friend.

Kyle watched the boy eat, a pit forming in his stomach.

"Dude," he said, "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

"I dunno," Kenny muttered through his mouthful of cookie.

"Seriously, Kenny. How long."

Kenny swallowed his bit and lowered his hand, which was holding another cookie at the ready.

"Not long."

"How long?"

"Since breakfast."

Kyle was quiet for a moment.

"Breakfast when?"

Kenny sighed, raking his fingers through his messy, uneven bangs, bringing them out of his eyes.

"Breakfast on Wednesday."

"Kenny, that was three days ago!" Kyle gasped. "How can you go that long without food?"

"I can survive without food for two weeks, dude." He paused. "And it's really not such a painful way to go."

"Don't joke about that, Ken!" Kyle Broflovski was shocked that his friend had gone this long being so hungry, and without even saying anything. "Jeez, Kenny, you could have asked for some food at lunch! We'd all have shared with you!"

Kenny shrugged, taking a bite of another cookie and speaking with his mouth full. "It doesn't matter to me. I've gone a long time without food before. Besides, we don't have much. Everything I get I mostly hand off to Karen. She's the one that needs it."

"I know she's your little sister, but you deserve food just as much as her," Kyle pointed out. "Jeez, Kenny, how do you stand it?"

Kenny stared down into the bag of cookies. He moved his boots around in the snow, his fingers twitching. He turned to look at Kyle, and Kyle saw that his left eye was black, with a cut above his swollen brow; he hadn't noticed before. Kenny half-smiled.

"I don't, mostly," he said. Kyle stared incredulously at his friend's bruised face. He reached out tentatively with his gloved fingers, hesitating before touching Kenny's bruised eye.

"Ken, how'd that happen?" He asked. Kenny leaned away from his friend's fingers.

"My dad."

"Why?"

"I asked for new boots."

Kyle looked again down at his friends feet, at the holey boots with their worn-down rubber tread.

"I could buy you some new boots, dude."

Kenny shrugged. "It wouldn't matter. Dad would just take them to sell for drug money. It wouldn't make a difference."

Kyle stared sadly at Kenny for a while. Kenny stared back.

"I'm just… I'm so sorry, Ken," Kyle said helplessly, not knowing what else he could say.

"I don't want your pity, dude. I'm fine. I've been living like this my whole life."

"But we could've…"

"You couldn't have done anything."

Kyle turned his eyes to his feet. "Do you… want money?"

"No."

"Are you sure? I've got twenty bucks right here…"

"Dude, I fucking don't want charity."

"But…"

"Shut your mouth, Kyle. Keep your money. And keep your stupid cookies."

Kenny stood and threw the bag of cookies at Kyle. The red-head was too surprised the react, and the bag fell pitifully to the ground. The cookies spilled at Kyle's feet. Kyle looked up at Kenny, shock on his face. Kenny had stood and was walking away, hands stuffed in his pockets. Kyle could see him shivering.

"Kenny, wait!" Kyle called, standing as ignoring the spilt cookies as he ran to his friend.

"Go home, Kyle," Kenny muttered, kicking at the snow.

"Dude, I was just trying to…"

"Ease your guilt? Give to a needy charity? I've heard it all before. 'There's that McCormick kid, dumpster diving for scraps. Maybe we should give him some money.' I'm sick of it." Kenny looked furious for a moment, then his expression softened. "Dude, I'm used to being hungry. I'm used to my dad beating me up. I don't look for pity or charity from you guys."

"I wasn't trying to give you charity," Kyle fumed. "I was just trying to be your friend. I gave you the cookies to be nice. I was offering to buy you boots because I hate how you have to be cold all the time. I care about you, Ken. It's not a bad thing."

Kenny stared at the Jewish boy for a moment before smiling slightly. It wasn't a grin or a smirk, it was a smile.

"I have to admit, Kyle, I'm glad you're here. I came out here to kill myself, but I guess with a friend like you I don't have to, right?"

Kyle gasped, horrified. "Oh, Kenny, don't do that! Never kill yourself! It would be terrible if you died. God, Kenny…"

Kenny looked curious at his friend. "Really? What would you do if I did die?"

"I… I don't know, dude! I'd freak out for one… and I'd probably cry…" Kyle blushed a furious red. "We shouldn't even be talking about it! Don't die, Ken, I don't know what we'd do if you were dead."

Kenny shook his head. "Oh it's not that bad when it happens."

"What?" Kyle asked.

"Nothing," Kenny replied. He lifted his hood back over his head. "Well, I guess I won't kill myself tonight. Maybe later."

"No, never!" Kyle insisted, rushing forward to catch up with his friend, who had started walking.

"You wouldn't really care all that much, trust me," Kenny said.

"I would too!"

"Yeah right." Kenny punched Kyle lightly on the arm. "You should probably go home, dude. Your hardcore Jewish parents are probably worried sick."

Kyle stared piercingly at Kenny. "I bet your parents are too, Kenny. You should go home too. Get out of the cold."

Kenny laughed. "My parents don't give a shit," he said, fingering his black-eye. "But thanks for the worry. See you tomorrow."

Kyle backed away from Kenny, looking at him accusingly. "Yeah, tomorrow, Ken. Don't you do anything stupid like killing yourself." Kenny nodded and waved. Kyle looked at him for a second longer before turning and beginning to rush home. It was later than he'd thought, he realized, looking down at his watch.

Kenny watched the boy go, hands in his pockets. He grinned slightly. Then, he turned back to the playground and walked over to the swings, bending to pick up the spilt cookies, putting them back into their bag. He could give them to Karen and Kevin. They'd be psyched.

**Here's my first 'South Park' fanfiction. I was really excited to write it. Lately, I've been breathing, thinking, and dreaming South Park. I especially like K2 friendship and Crenny. But the K2 came first. I hope you all liked it. Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

Kyle Broflovski sat up in bed at one in the morning on a Tuesday night. He didn't know quite what had woken it up, but he knew something had, because he was a deep sleeper and generally didn't wake up at one in the morning for no reason. So he gazed about his room for a moment, analyzing the position of all his possessions, his green eyes flicking to the shut door, and found nothing of interest. It wasn't Ike, because if it had been Ike it would have been loud and obnoxious, and he wouldn't have stopped pounding the door or kicking the wall or whatever he had done to wake Kyle in the first place.

The red-haired boy was about to resign himself back to bed with the thought that it had just been a car honking in the distance or something, when he heard a tapping noise from his window. He almost jumped right out of his bed at the startling noise, but after recovering himself he turned to the dark window to see who at this ungodly hour was tapping at it.

Kyle made out a figure, and of course, his initial reaction was that a murderer was outside his room; but the figure continued the incessant tapping, and Kyle eventually realized that no murderer would tap on a window – Kyle could have easily called the cops before any murderer would have been able to get inside – and made out an orange parka in the dark outside his room.

Sighing, Kyle clambered out of his bed and moved to his window. He glared at Kenny McCormick for a moment (who else could it have been at one in the morning?), and then he sluggishly unlocked the window. With a gust of chill winter air and a flurry of snowflakes, it was opened, and within moments Kenny had climbed gracelessly into Kyle's room.

The boy landed on the floor in a heap of orange, blond and snow, and Kyle quickly closed the window behind him. Once Kenny had stood and brushed the snow from his head and shoulders so that lay on his floor and began to melt into the carpet, Kyle crossed his arms over his chests.

"What are you doing here, Kenny?" he growled in a whisper. "It's one in the morning on a school night."

"If it's one in the morning, it can't be a school night, can it?" Kenny replied sardonically, and Kyle took a moment to understand his warped humor.

"Oh, shut up!" he snapped. "I'm tired, Kenny, and I've got a huge Chemistry test tomorrow, and by golly if you don't leave I'm going to have to call my mother!"

Kenny rolled his eyes, stuck out his tongue and sat on Kyle's bed. "Well, you're just cheery."

Kyle tugged Kenny right back up. "You're soaking wet, don't sit on my bed. Why are you here, anyway?"

The blond shrugged. "I died on Sunday, and I was feeling a bit depressed so I thought I'd kill myself again. But then I figured it'd be funner to have you talk me out of it."

"It's _more fun_, Kenny, not _funner_, and you did _not_ die on Sunday, you absolute idiot!"

Kyle looked around nervously, realizing that he had raised his voice, but no one had woken. His house was silent, save for the two teenage boys' breathing.

"I did die on Sunday," Kenny insisted airily. "You weren't at the funeral, though. No one ever is." He sat down on the bed again.

"If you are going to sit on my bed, take of your stupid parka," Kyle snapped. "And no, you did not die, and there was not a funeral, and if there was, people would be there. I would be there."

Kenny McCormick unzipped his orange parka and shrugged it off, tossing it aside. He leaned back onto Kyle's mattress, closing his eyes in ecstasy. Kyle stared at his friend. The shirt he had been wearing under the parka was obviously a hand-me-down… in fact, it was one of his own father's old shirts that had been given to Goodwill. The Jewish boy shifted uncomfortably. It was the shirt that his father had given away because it had been stained when Ike spilled Kosher spaghetti sauce on it, and then when Gerald Broflovski had tried to bleach the red out, it had gone horribly wrong. Kyle had tried to persuade his father against giving it to Goodwill, because it had been transformed an ugly, puke-ish orange color and no one would ever want to buy it. It had been priced at ten cents.

Kyle wondered why Kenny had been desperate enough to buy that disgusting old shirt, especially if he could have bought others for only a quarter. Maybe he had only had ten cents to spend, and no shirts.

"God dammit, Kyle, your bed feels so nice," Kenny murmured. "My parents sold mine for crack a couple days ago. Granted, it was just an old mattress, but still."

"That's not why you 'died,' is it?" Kyle asked sarcastically. "You died of lack of mattress? I hear it's a spreading epidemic around these parts." It wasn't a funny joke, Kyle knew; in fact, it was rather cruel, stabbing humor at Kenny's lack of any proper bed. He had no new clothes, and now he had no bed. And most of the time, he had no food.

"Nope," Kenny replied, smirking. "I died after Cartman and Clyde thought it would be funny to push me into the street."

Kyle crossed his arms. "You didn't die, Ken. That truck missed you by a mile."

"Yeah, go on believing that. You always do."

"I know it, dude. That truck swerved and missed. Remember? Afterward, Clyde bought you ice-cream 'cause he's an absolute pansy, and Cartman just laughed and said that it was your white-trash-ghetto reflexes that saved you."

Kenny frowned. "No, I don't remember that. I remember dying, and I remember that no one cared, as usual."

"Dude, we care."

"I know you think that."

"I care."

"Keep believing, some day it might come true."

"Shut up, Kenny! I care if you die, okay? I don't want you to die!"

Kenny opened one eye and looked at Kyle lazily from his position on the boy's bed.

"It would be nice if that were true."

"Kenny!"

"No, seriously. It would honestly make my day if someone would care, just once."

"Shut up, you freaking asshole!"

"Actually, it would make my whole life. All my lives. Yeah." He smiled and gazed at the ceiling. "If someone cared, just once, I'd be satisfied until I finally died for good."

"You're a retard, Kenny, you know that?"

"Shut it, Kyle, that's derogatory."

"I don't care. You're retarded. Stop talking about dying and stuff. You barge into my room at one in the morning, and the only thing you want to do is convince me that I don't care about you!"

The two boys went quiet when they heard a noise from somewhere in the house, but relaxed when there was no further sound. Kyle breathed a sigh of relief. If his mom caught him awake at one in the morning with someone in his room, there's no telling what she would do.

Kenny heaved himself up onto his elbows and looked at Kyle. And he wasn't smiling, just looking… looking at the red-haired boy with those piercing blue eyes of his. Kyle couldn't help but notice how pale he was. Pale, pale, pale. Except for the skin under his eyes. That skin was black. A boy shouldn't look that tired, Kyle thought.

"I'm sorry," he said simply. He stood shakily. "I'll go if you want." He moved over to where he had tossed his parka, and as he bent over to get it, Kyle glanced out the window and noticed just how hard it was snowing, and just how cold it must be outside, and just how wet Kenny's parka was, and just how thin his pants were. Kyle Broflovski noticed that his friend still didn't have gloves and that he still hadn't bought new boots, and he realized how incredibly cold and lonely he would be, out in the snow at one in the morning with nowhere to go.

"You don't have to," Kyle said. "I mean… you don't have to go. You can wait here, you know, until the snow lets up some."

Kenny straightened and looked at Kyle, and he didn't smile, but he moved back to the bed and sat down, leaving his wet parka on the ground. Kyle hesitated before moving to sit next to him.

The anger Kyle had felt when Kenny had first entered the room had dissipated, and now the sight of the boy didn't make him angry. He could think rationally.

"Did you really mean what you said?" Kyle asked. Kenny smiled now.

"Which thing?" he asked.

"About you… you know, committing suicide," Kyle whispered, as if even just saying the word was a sin.

Kyle kicked off his boots and leaned back again, crossing his arms behind his head.

"Well, yeah," he said. "Why would I lie about that?"

"Ken, man, that's a sin," Kyle said. "You know, you'd, like, go to Hell."

Kenny shrugged. "It's really not so bad. Satan's a pretty cool guy."

"Satan's the god of Hell," Kyle stressed. "Like, eternal pain and torture, dude. You don't want that."

"It's not that bad. I mean, the fire and brimstone part sucks, but overall it's a pretty good place."

"Dude, cut it out. You did not die on Sunday."

Kenny sighed. "Do we really have to argue about this? Because I'll always be right. I died on Sunday, I died the Tuesday before that, and I've died lots of other times too."

"No," Kyle started, "Because if you died, Kenny, you'd be dead. You know, as in six feet under. Not alive."

"I'm an anomaly. What can I say?"

"You're an idiot."

"I'm special."

"You're an asshole."

"I'm just totally awesome."

"You make no sense."

"I'm immortal."

"Dammit, Kenny, why do you have to be like that?" Kyle burst. There was utter silence until the blond stirred.

"I don't know. To cope, I guess. It's the same reason I like to kill myself."

"Don't kill yourself, Kenny. I don't want you to die."

Kenny sat up really quickly and stared into Kyle's eyes with a ferocity that Kyle had never seen before. He leaned away from his friend, averting his eyes from that fierce, terrifying, electrifying glare. It was too intense.

"Kyle, will you try?" Kenny asked.

"Try what?" Kyle replied, still trying not to look at the boy.

"Try, next time I die, try to be sad," he said. "Can you? Because it seriously would, Kyle. It would seriously just make my whole pitiful existence worthwhile."

Kyle Broflovski tried vainly to smooth down his curly red hair and frowned and his friend.

"Don't even talk about dying, Ken. It's really not funny to me."

Kenny looked at him for a moment longer, and then it seemed as though all the intensity left him as he exhaled, and he sat back, looking defeated and deflated and small. Kyle was baffled. Kenny McCormick never looked _small_.

"Kyle," he said quietly, not a whisper, but quiet; like the sound of snow falling to the earth. "Do you remember that night?"

And somehow, Kyle knew exactly which night Kenny was talking about. It was the night when he'd found the boy alone on the playground, with a black eye and no food in his stomach.

"Yeah," Kyle answered.

"I went home," Kenny continued. "I went home and I gave those cookies to Kevin and Karen. And then I went into my room, and I looked at my pocket knife, and at my dad's gun, and I didn't kill myself."

Kyle didn't know what to say. What was he supposed to say?

"That's good," he finally managed. "I'm really happy."

"But," Kenny started again, "but, the thing is that I usually do, you know?"

No. Kyle didn't know. Not at all.

"I don't even know what you mean," Kyle said. "Is that a metaphor?"

Kenny just went on talking, ignoring Kyle's question.

"And I thought about it, and it feels a lot nicer to not kill myself than to kill myself. And it's great, you know, that you can make me not want to die."

"I'm happy about that," Kyle said slowly. He sighed. "Kenny, I really don't want you to die. You keep talking about it like it's all a big joke, but to me, it's not. So please stop."

Kenny looked straight into Kyle's eyes and grinned.

"Just try to be that caring next time, okay? I was being honest about what I said. It would make living worth it."

"Yeah," Kyle replied warily, not really knowing what else to say. "Okay, Ken, I'll… I'll try."

Kenny sat up and jumped off of Kyle's bed, chuckling slightly and walking over to grab his damp parka from the floor. He shrugged it on over his shoulders and moved over towards the window. Kyle sat up with a start.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," Kenny answered. "I feel better now, dude."

Kenny started to open the window. He couldn't, though, because Kyle had locked it and he hadn't known.

"Do you want something to eat?" Kyle asked, standing and moving over to his friend. "I mean, mom made some hamantashen and we still have some left over."

Kenny raised an eyebrow. "Hamantashen?"

"You know, dude, Jewish cookies."

Kenny laughed, and it made Kyle smile.

"Sure, fine, thanks," he said, and Kyle grinned and quietly opened his door and backed out of his room.

"Just wait a minute, I'll be right back."

Kenny leaned against the wall, staring out of the window as he waiting for the red-head to get him the cookies. He grinned and pressed his face against the cool glass, feeling content.

Kyle Broflovski returned a few minutes later, flushed from rushing and carrying a paper bag filled with hamantashen. But his room was empty.

Kyle stood there for a moment, looking around, somehow expecting Kenny McCormick to be hiding in a corner or something of the sort. But the blond was nowhere to be seen.

Kyle walked slowly to the window, his smile somewhat diminishing, and noticed that it had been unlocked. He opened it deftly, leaning out into the night, snow landing in his air. There were footsteps on the ground beneath his window.

Hesitating, Kyle continued to stare into the dark for a long moment. But his friend had gone.

"You forgot your cookies," Kyle muttered sullenly, but his voice disappeared into the soft snowfall. He turned his eyes down to the bag in his hands. He had carefully handpicked only the best. There were cherry, chocolate, apple, and caramel… no prune ones.

Kyle reached his arm out and dropped the bag into the snow beneath his window. "Oh well," he said. "Maybe he'll come back for them."

The Jewish boy shut the window heavily, a gust of air blowing some snowflakes into his room. He wrapped his arms around his chest, cold from the mild exposure of sticking his head out the window, and returned to his bed. He settled down under his covers and hugged his pillow to his chest. As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn't help thinking _Kenny doesn't have a bed._

He slept restlessly.


End file.
